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Eversley Village Hall


OldDog Centaur Dumper

Savoury and Sweet

Ms Whiplash Salome (got to get them in first. Missed them off last week. Boy, were they hacked off!)
Butterfly AintGotOne Dysentry Hashgate Donut The Tremblers Shitfor Desperate Vlad Drac Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Jenny Ella Matt gary and dog Fudge CabinBuoy Honeymonster JWax Blowjob Glittertits Pissquick Bomber Posh Baldrick Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Uplift Whinge TC Septic Florence Zebedee Cloggs Nonstick KnackerCatcher Billy Bullshit Cerberus Stinking Bishop Grommet Spot Handful Hitchiker NewBoiler Mother Theresa Lemming Foghorn CallGirl Slowsucker Slackbladder Slippery Gnomealone Potty Nutcracker LoudonTasteless Spex Fukawe Hamlet Cheating Shutupwally Simple Motox Itsyor Iceman

BH3 Holds A Coffee Morning

OldDog, drawing on her experiences with the W.I., had organized for us a coffee and cakes Hash. Not quite our usual tipple but very welcome on a day when the wind whipped up your trouser leg like a frosty ferret intent on toothy revenge. Despite the cold a host of Hashers appeared at the village hall, including Butterfly in her snazzy new Mazda and Zebedee (previously known as TT1) in his, what else, Audi TT which he parked next to Grommet’s. Hard top and cabaret both in natty blue. Ms Whiplash hobbled past having, according to her, injured an ankle ligament excercising a dog. (It is reported that she actually sustained the damage falling off that new pair of 9-inch pvc stiletto boots on the run-up to spank number 5 during Spot’s most recent weekly thrashing. Apparently, an errant previously skinned banana was the cause. Sadly, Spot could do nothing to assist since he was handcuffed, leg-ironed and dangling like a naked pink spider – apart from a basque and tartan slippers – from the showerhead at the time.) AintGotOne turned up with his oppo, Dysentry. Must be interesting having as a personal friend the Fifth Horseman of the Apocolypse. Fortunately for the more easily spooked among us he had forgone his spindly Steed of Death and arrived as AintGotOne’s passenger. Also, on one of his rare visitations, Knackercatcher joined us. Nice to see the fellow after all this time. He informed me (in his high falsetto that, “Nothing much has changed. I just have a little less hair.”

Our Hares had whipped us up a fine cake of a Trail – spongy underfoot with the occasional Mississippi mud pie. Not too much flour; a little icing; hundreds and thousands of pine needles. Some very interesting bits in the middle. We started off quite slowly, both physically and mentally, probably due to the cold. Nobody could find the trail at that farm with the electric gate and the miserable bat by the car (Ms Bucolica 1978) who refused to acknowledge one’s cheery (possibly manic I know, but cheery nonetheless) “View halloo Ms B!” Posh drifted past. But was it Posh? Difficult to tell. She seemed either to be taking the part of The Invisible Man or had embraced a faith that was distinctly non-Christian. Every part of her slender body was covered and she had some kind of veil over her face that allowed the viewer only a tantalising glimpse of her eyes. Thinking about it there were a few other Hashers who would have benefitted from being entirely hidden from view. I would, of course, not be so unkind as to name names. You can think up your own list. Glittertits hove into view, rather like a more extreme Cambridge United supporter – all amber and black. The former his hair. The later his running kit. The poor sod was really rather frozen, having forgotten his gloves. So I lent him one of mine. Sounds a bit daft I know, but I can only use one glove since I have to wield the tiny buttons on my recording machine, designed for use by those with fingers the size of those on day old babies. “Thanks Hashgate.” Beamed the friendly GT. “I’ll try not to pick my nose.” I just prayed he didn’t get an itch in a difficult to reach place… We trotted on like mirror Michael Jacksons. Cripes! I just thought of another reason for giving the glove a damn good wash.

There were some truly unusual sights on the Trail not the least of which was Hitchiker. Running. I know. Difficult if not impossible to believe. But, yep, she kept catching up with Florence and me at one point and forcing us to question whether she is getting fitter or whether we are turning into a pair of broken-down, knackered old saddos. Bound to be the former, I hear you chorus. I agree. The lass is certainly buckling down to it. Perhaps we should get her to talk to Dutch. Now that would be a sight to make you sit down and view your water bottle with suspicion. Other sights? Cerberus and I were joined by a small, cute, rough-haired dog of indeterminate parentage who trotted alongside us with his little legs going so fast he moved like a centipede. Apparently, Lilo and TinOpener kidnapped him and stuck him in their car later on the pretext that he was lost and they could get no answer from his owner when they phoned the number on his doggie tag. The sights got a little more surreal as Florence and I topped that dirty great hill leading up to the scrapyard-cum-farm. A pink and oinking group of piggies skittered out of a field and stood looking querulously at us. “Gorrany scraps mister?” They seemed to ask. “Nice potato peelin’. Foo ole brussels?” Sadly we hadn’t and ShutupWally was nowhere to be seen. He could have given them all the hogwash and pigswill they wanted. So to our last sight. As we trotted gratefully down towards the forest on the farm track we spied a large multi-coloured patchwork bullock to our left. The fine creature appeared to be grazing by the wire fence and Florence and I neared the magnificent creature to investigate. It’s times like these that give the Hash a certain magic. There we were, on our way to a very civilized afternoon cakefest in a village hall. This fellow had obviously got the message. He was nosing delicately through a moderately sized pile of… croissants and doughnuts! I’ve heard of cattle cake but this took the biscuit. Four of his friends looked on inquisitively from a distance. One can imagine the scene after we had left. Our friend looks over his shoulder at his friends and beckons with a languid hoof, “I say you fellows. There’s an awfully good pile of tuck here. Fancy joining me?” Whereupon the four wander over, select from the politely proffered feast, open up their shooting sticks and prop themselves upon them, cross-legged, while indulging in effete conversation.

We, on the other hand, squelched through muddy forest, tripped over hidden brambles, got blown sideways on windswept plateaux, splurged ankle-deep in deceptively green sphagnum moss, had our hair (those who have some left!) back-combed by close growing saplings. Then gorged our eyes on those final, clear, sweeping views across the waving fields where the invisible air sprites tumbled and danced in the wintry sunshine. The legs may have been tired, the skin cold. But at moments like this you feel in tune with the natural world and glad to be a part of it. We are very lucky people. Aren’t we?

And to finish, hot coffee and fine cakes (even those F.F.C. ones brought by Desperate and Shitfor!), beer if you wanted and good company (well, if you kept away from Whinge, Lemming, Foghorn – you know the types). I must mention JWax, who made that exceptionally tasty ‘BH3’ cake. Apple, cinnamon, cloves and possibly a hint of something ‘herbal’? I certainly felt better after a toke nibble.

Excellent day Hares and helpers. BH3 does it again. Aren’t we good at what we do!

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Simple presented the following :-



Style points


Leaving here whistle on her bed for lemming to find…

Utterly pathetic. Even I could (probably) do better

Ella, Jenny

Today’s virgins

Very creditable effort by both


Her birthday

Reasonable. Nothing more than that.


Cocking up his one chance to be an FRB

He choked. In more ways than one. So sad to see a once proud etc…


Today’s Hash Crash

Much better!


Our visitor

Lovely smooth execution

OldDog, Dumper Centaur

Today’s Hares

Centaur came first. Much to OldDog’s disappointment (ahem).

Up and Coming



Grid Reference






Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Hills Lane
Cookham Dean SL6 9NT

Billy Bullshit




* Change of Venue *
The Black Lion
Woodcote RG8 0RB